


Pantheon

by ClockworkCourier



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Badass Courier, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Hilarity Ensues, Humor, Mythology References, Past Torture, Rating May Change, Redemption, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-06 13:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6756178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vulpes knows that a pantheon cannot be limited to one god. He also knows that Courier is absolutely out of her mind and is either setting him up for a very bloody, horrific death, or she actually does like him and just has a funny way of showing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Justitia - Goddess of Justice

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this, and I have no excuse for loving a problematic murderous furry. So, with all those excuses I don't have, save for just having to get this fic out of my system while I worked on other stuff, have this mess and please don't string me up and set me on fire.
> 
> Mostly I just wanted to see Vulpes getting messed with by the Courier and her merry band of misfits. <3

Vulpes had been inclined on a few occasions to disagree with Caesar. It was rare that he would take it upon himself to incite a verbal debate, although he wouldn’t have called himself a soothsayer. Vulpes just had an instinctual need to avoid confrontation, even about smaller things like philosophy and politics. It was something that may have been worked into him, being the head of the Frumentarii and thus making a business of keeping his head down and his voice rarely heard. He had his opinions, of course, but unless the need to speak was pressing, or his adversary was someone he knew he could argue with freely, he wouldn’t say a word otherwise.  
  
One such instance came up shortly after the rather miraculous ascension of a sunken pre-war airplane on the surface of Lake Mead. The entire Legion camp was abuzz at the sight of the thing, and from a peek through the binoculars, everyone else, NCR or not, was as well. The camp’s augurs and priestesses tried to divine a meaning out of it, the same way they might try to figure out any omens in a comet’s tail or the number of crows sitting in a tree. Vulpes was the first one to get the actual meaning of it, as he was well accustomed to keeping the proverbial ear to the ground. When Caesar summoned him, he offered his explanation in opposition to a rather mouthy augur telling their leader that it was the work of some angry pre-war water spirits, or maybe grouchy lakelurks.  
  
“The Courier, I believe,” Vulpes said with a shrug. Behind him, Lucius grunted in agreement. “She’s been seen working with the Boomers lately, and it’s a matter of correlation between this event and their presence at Nellis. They have the technology to repair a machine of that nature, and with her arrival, they now have the means to gather it.”  
  
Vulpes did have to admit that even he was a little surprised at the appearance of the Courier wearing a jacket with a bright yellow ‘34’ emblazoned on the back. The Legion had certainly made attempts to make contact with the Boomers, as the ordnance they possessed would have been of spectacular benefit, but most of those missions ended with a small troop being blown to smithereens on the business end of a howitzer. What didn’t surprise him was that someone as resilient as her had managed to brave that field, as there was certainly something to be said about people taking two bullets to the head and avoiding any further incidents.  
  
Caesar took this in stride, his expression thoughtful. “I see,” he had said. “Consider me interested.” This was within days of ranting that the Courier excelled in driving wedge after wedge into the Legion’s plans and how he would personally like to see her shoved into a grave permanently. It seemed that she alternated days of being a potential fantastic ally and being the most horrific nuisance.  
  
Personally, Vulpes still wasn’t sure what to think of her.  
  
Then, Caesar eyed him peculiarly, like he was reaching an internal decision to be pleased about something or to be angry. “Vulpes, who is the consort of Mars?”  
  
Vulpes frowned. He wasn’t entirely sure how to answer, if it was a trick question or legitimate. For that matter, it was certainly out of the blue, but his lord had a habit of spouting things at odd times. Tentatively, he answered, “Venus, sir.”  
  
“Correct.” There was a long pause, and Vulpes could hear the strain of leather from Lucius shifting behind him. Finally, Caesar turned his gaze in the direction of Lake Mead and smiled. “I believe I have found our Venus.”  
  
Not for the first time, Vulpes wanted to argue. Surprisingly, Lucius spoke instead. “The Courier, sir?” His disbelief was tangible. The Courier was young yet, hardly older than Vulpes if he had to give an estimate. That meant that she could hardly be over twenty-five, if that. She had torn through Legion plans as if they were little more than another Fiend for her to ventilate. Time and time again, upon word of her actions, she had sent their leader into angry, frothing rants. To think of her as the equivalent of the consort of Mars was almost laughable, if the consequences of laughing wouldn’t have been so dire.  
  
“Vulpes,” Caesar called, ignoring Lucius. “You’ve met her twice now. How about a third time?”  
  
The thought made Vulpes frown. “Sir, I already gave her your Mark. You said she would come on her own accord.”  
  
“And she will,” Caesar replied. He sounded so sure of himself, almost over-confident. “But clearly, she doesn’t mean to come here to make peace. What with word of that pet NCR sniper she has on hand, especially. I need you to find her and make our offer more appealing, or less resistible. How you achieve it is up to you.”  
  
There was a benefit to that line of thinking, absolutely. The Courier had the Boomers at her disposal, as well as a good portion of the tribes of the Strip and Freeside, and the NCR held some favor with her. The Followers of the Apocalypse had taken her in with open arms, and if hearsay was correct, even the Great Khans were starting to bow their heads a little more in her direction. If, on the off chance, the Legion _was_ able to sway her, she would have been the most promising ally they could gain. But that was the _off chance_ , as Vulpes knew it would have to take the pain of death to have her change her mind, and even then, she would probably die before she switched sides.  
  
He wasn’t going to say that out loud, though.  
  
His doubts, however, couldn’t have done much harm in being voiced. Between himself, Lucius, and even Lanius on occasion, Caesar was able to be swayed in increments. He was stubborn, certainly, but no one would call him stupid.  
  
“Sir, I don’t think it would be so simple as just a few words,” Vulpes admitted, choosing each word with care. “She’s reportedly quite fond of using her entire armory on any member of the Legion she happens upon. I doubt that even in a disarmed situation, she would be willing to have a conversation.”  
  
Fortunately, Caesar seemed to mull it over before nodding. “No, you’re not wrong, and I’m sure that armory has had a boost since her last visit with the Boomers. I can’t imagine they wouldn’t try to outfit her a little better.”  
  
For the barest moment, Vulpes allowed himself to hope that Caesar would call the whole thing off. The whole situation conjured up images of a trigger-happy Courier in possession of mini-nukes with a mental target painted on a Legion troop. Instead, the man just waved one hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. “Just remind her that we’ve got a few bargaining chips. She might have half the Mojave working for her, but not only do we have Benny...” He trailed off before reaching down beside him and picking up the platinum chip. The late afternoon sun caught the shine on it, and it glimmered as Caesar rolled the chip between his fingers. “She needs this, with what ever she has planned, I’m sure.”  
  
Vulpes was going to have to go, whether he liked it or not. He certainly _didn’t_ like it.  
  
“Go fetch our Venus, Vulpes Inculta,” Caesar said, his voice steeling with authority. No one in the tent would have questioned him.  
  
Vulpes dutifully saluted him, a gesture more robotically ingrained into his mind than something he did with any sort of passion.  
  
Yet he knew he wasn’t going to fetch Venus. The Courier wasn’t the consort of Mars. In fact, there was no way he could limit her to just one deity, the same way that no pantheon could be reduced to one god.  
  
\---  
  
It was difficult to pinpoint exactly where he had made a mistake. Realistically, his first mistake was probably going to pursue her at all. He could have made it easier on himself by just going to the Strip, blending in, spending a week or so just picking up trails of information, and then going back to Fortification Hill and declaring his mission a failure. But Vulpes hated admitting he had ever had a failure, even if he hadn’t completed the mission in the first place. So he did as he was told.  
  
And he got a rifle butt to the back of the head for his troubles.  
  
Regardless of what mistake led him to where he was, it was going to take some special level of planning to get him out. When he did wake up, it was to the odd situation of sitting in an empty bathtub with a familiar cybernetic dog staring at him from over the edge of it. He was still wearing his gamblers’ suit, his hat removed, his wrists and ankles bound tightly with duct tape, and the definite sensation of bruising on the back of his head and in a few other choice places. Whoever had handled him hadn’t done it gently, since if he had to say what hurt the most, he would have said his _everything_ hurt.  
  
Once he had blinked a few times, the dog perked up and started barking at him. Vulpes winced at the noise, as it definitely didn’t help the headache beginning to blossom at the back of his skull.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, give me a second,” a voice drawled. Vulpes turned his head, taking in a little more of the tiny space he was in. By his guess, he was in some sort of hotel or a well-kept house, with a clean sink, toilet, and a shelving unit to his right, and a dark curtain drawn so he would be cut off from the rest of the room. Everything smelled musty but otherwise clean, with the barest chemical scent of detergent under everything. The only sound other than the creak of a chair was a strange, deep hum coming from somewhere nearby, and not something Vulpes could identify, especially with his head very nicely clouded and feeling like the choice location of a bighorner stampede.  
  
He knew he wasn’t in the Ultra-Luxe, the Tops, or Gomorrah. And if on the chance that he wasn’t in a house, that left...  
  
Well, _shit._  
  
The curtain was drawn aside with a metallic scrape, and Vulpes was met with the sight of a tall ghoul in leather armor. The ghoul looked utterly bored, sighing like Vulpes was just one more thing to take care of on a to-do list. He scratched the back of his neck before reaching down and petting the dog beside him.  
  
“Well, good morning, I think,” the ghoul said, an accent curling his voice. “Hell, I never know what time it is in here. Anyway, the boss’ll be happy to know you’re up. Maybe.”  
  
As if on cue, Vulpes could hear the sound of a mounting argument nearby, maybe one room over. The walls made it difficult to hear what was being said, but whoever was arguing certainly wasn’t happy. There were multiple voices, two females and two males, by his guess. One male in particular sounded very incensed.  
  
The ghoul just sighed again and rolled one shoulder. “Okay, maybe the boss _won’t_ be happy. No one’s exactly on board with you being here.”  
  
“Where am I?” Vulpes croaked out, his voice scratchy, reminding him how dry his throat was. He had an idea of where he was, but it never hurt to be sure. Or, rather, it _did_ hurt, but he had to know.  
  
It was difficult to tell, considering the rotting look of the ghoul’s face, but Vulpes _thought_ he saw him smirk. “Amigo, you’re in the one and only Lucky 38! Though, it’s probably not so lucky for you today.”  
  
The Lucky 38. Vulpes had imagined infiltrating the casino before, as there was no doubt that the entire building contained some of the greatest secrets in the Mojave, let alone what was left of the world. He just never had envisioned being tied up in a bathtub in the Lucky 38, possibly being argued over by an extraordinary band of misfits.  
  
Unfortunately, like the ghoul had said, it wasn’t exactly a lucky thing. That meant he was in the Courier’s den of operation, the very same Courier that was infamous among the Legion for taking out the first sign of Legion crimson when it crossed her sight. It was common sense that stayed her hand in Nipton, and it was the need to prevent making a scene that kept her from killing him when he approached her on the Strip after Benny took off. While Vulpes wasn’t sure where he stood on the subject of fate, he wasn’t going to test it by questioning what she might do on their third meeting. The pain in his head was enough to tell him that she wasn’t going to be so merciful. A more imaginative part of him quickly supplied at least a dozen scenarios of his own death, and he had to minutely shudder his way out of it.  
  
Trying to get out of the casino was undoubtedly impossible for the moment. He had no idea what the actual level of security was, but his reports informed him that he would have had a better chance clawing his way through a cazador nest wearing nothing but a t-shirt and brandishing only a combat knife. Her sniper was surely nearby, and the ghoul in front of him, as calm and collected as he looked, also had the appearance of someone who knew their way around firearms. That wasn’t counting the rumored nightkin the Courier somehow befriended, or the ED-E unit, or the power fist-clad spritely Brotherhood of Steel scribe, or really anyone that the Courier had assembled into her ragtag group. Even the dog probably would have gleefully ripped his throat out if given the proper command.  
  
Vulpes had two options at that moment. He could either attempt to end his own life by bashing his head off the edge of the bathtub (or maybe politely asking the ghoul if he could spare an extra bullet), or he could go along with what the Courier had in mind, which also probably would end in a premature death. However, with his senses becoming a little less clouded by the minute, he could _try_ to talk his way out of it.  
  
Regardless of his options, Vulpes was, quite plainly, fucked.  
  
The dog barked at him again, and the ghoul hummed thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be _too_ stressed about this,” he said, leaning up against the wall. “The boss’s obviously not happy with you, but she was the one who kept sayin’ we had to keep you alive. Maybe she’s got a plan for you. Might not be a _good_ plan, but that could mean she’s not going to string you up from the casino roof, so that’s something.”  
  
There was a sarcastic comment forming through the fog in his head, but he was cut off by the bathroom door opening. The ghoul turned and sighed, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “All yours, niña,” he said before trading places with her and shutting the door behind him.  
  
Vulpes wasn’t exactly prepared to see the Courier come around the corner, clad not in her usual reinforced armor, but in a plain white tank top and fatigue pants. She didn’t look as severe as he remembered her, her black hair pulled back into a half-ponytail, her dark eyes fixed on him but not as murderously as he last recalled, and at least not in that well-trained cold glare she gave him at Nipton. She took the ghoul’s place against the wall, leaning on it with her arms crossed over her chest. He noticed that she wasn’t wearing her Pip-Boy, which he figured was simply a temporary thing. He also noticed the pale shine of an ancient-looking 10mm pistol at her hip, and it hardly escaped him that the safety was off. It would take her the span of the blink of an eye to pull it from its holster and give him an up close and personal show of its firepower.  
  
“Never thought I’d see the day where Vulpes Inculta was tied up in my bathtub,” she said, her tone easy and casual. “Too bad you’re a Legion asshole or else I might think this isn’t a half bad thing.”  
  
“Courier,” Vulpes returned stiffly. His wrists were starting to ache.  
  
“I have a name, you know. Hell, you probably know my birthday for that matter.”  
  
He didn’t, but he did know quite a bit about her. He knew she called herself Lizzie Holliday, obviously a fake name, and he knew that she was formerly employed with the Mojave Express, hired by Johnson Nash himself. Rooting out details of her past prior to her botched execution in Goodsprings had yielded next to nothing, as she had done an excellent job of covering it up, but her actions in the Mojave were well-documented. He even knew that she had met the Burned Man, which in itself was astounding. He did know, however, that she excelled in medicine and repair, and that her aim was _very_ deadly. That didn’t paint the prettiest of pictures on the topic of her possible childhood.  
  
“I thought a first-name basis required some kind of camaraderie,” he quipped in return. “Until then, _Courier_ will suffice.”  
  
He didn’t miss the crooked grin that spread across her face. “Then _Jackass_ is going to work just fine for you, too.”  
  
Vulpes didn’t have time for this, or rather, he did, but he didn’t want to spend it trading jibes with a girl that looked like she was moments from letting him see exactly how the barrel of her 10mm looked up close. He adjusted himself as best he could, given the tiny amount of space he had, and gave her a very level glare. “I’m certain you didn’t tie me up and keep me as a hostage just to trade insults,” he said, keeping his voice as cold and neutral as he could.  
  
“Damn, you caught on,” she replied, even snapping her fingers for emphasis. “I don’t know, I thought you might come in handy when I had a bad day and needed to vent. Then I could just call you every name in the book and it could be a decompression exercise.”  
  
He kept glaring.  
  
“Fine,” she sighed, reaching up and tucking a stray strand of hair behind one ear. “Long story short, aside from Silus, you’re pretty much a goldmine of Legion secrets and whatever. Like, the NCR would probably pay me something awesome if I turned you over to them.”  
  
The look on his face must have been grand, because she snorted. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “As much as I would just _love_ to be your bargaining chip, Courier,” he said, his voice snide. “I’m afraid that exchange would either end up in some necessary NCR deaths or my own. I’m not a sniveling coward like Silus.”  
  
“If you’d let me finish,” she continued. There was something conspiratorial in her expression, and Vulpes found that he didn’t like it. “I’m _not_ turning you over to the NCR, or really anyone. You’re staying right where you are.”  
  
“In the bathtub,” he deadpanned. The gravity of the situation wasn’t lost on him, though.  
  
“Hilarious. But no, you’re in my company until I decide otherwise, which won’t be for awhile.”  
  
He quirked an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting choice.”  
  
“Well, you pride yourself on digging up secrets, so I’ll give you a free one to do what you will with,” she replied with a somewhat predatory shine in her eyes. “I’m not interested in the NCR winning this war, or the Legion, or even Mr. House. Hell, no one at McCarran knows you’re here, even though Boone’s practically chomping at the bit to call some rangers in or kill you himself. He hasn’t said a word though, and neither will I. The only people who know you’re here are the people in this suite and yourself.”  
  
It dawned on Vulpes almost immediately. The rumors of her working with numerous groups and organizations, solving problems along the way and earning loyalties of seemingly unconnected people. If she had a group like the Boomers working with her, she could potentially dominate the Mojave not under the banner of another, but her own.  
  
“You want to win the war for yourself,” he said, more comment than question. It was a little astounding, and he had to say that for the record, he was impressed.  
  
“That I do, and you’ve potentially provided me an _excellent_ missing piece,” she replied with a quirked grin. “I’ve got the Three Families lined up nicely which means I have the Strip, plus the Boomers, all of Freeside, and hell, even the Great Khans are starting to warm up to me, especially after that little bastard Karl got taken care of. And even though I’m not going to let the NCR win, I’ve got a good connection with them for the time being, and I’ve gotten the Brotherhood of Steel to acquiesce to them for now. So that leaves the Legion, and here you are.”  
  
With it all put on the table, it seemed that the odds were far more overwhelming than he had calculated. Only months before, he would never have imagined that one Mojave Express courier girl would end up being in the race for domination of New Vegas, let alone possibly _leading_ it. She had outfoxed nearly all of his plans, no pun intended, and then moved on to maneuvering around Caesar’s. The Legion’s connections with the Omertas were crushed, the mole at McCarran was gone, the Frumentarius at Red Rock Canyon was out of the picture, and almost every other carefully laid trap of his had been dismantled and promptly disposed of by the woman before him. This was no consort of Mars.  
  
Vulpes had tended to follow a life philosophy of finding the best way to keep himself alive. Caesar had done well in that respect, from childhood all the way to that moment. Now, however, Vulpes was faced with the very real possibility that his lord wasn’t the strongest, and that the Courier bore sharper fangs. Following Caesar’s orders while tied up in front of her probably wouldn’t keep him alive, and if no one in the Legion knew exactly where he was, he was dead regardless.  
  
So he took in a breath, trying to steady himself and his mind as it worked its way through the very persistent ache, and kept level eye contact with her. “And what exactly did you have in mind? I doubt I’ll be given the royal treatment here.”  
  
“Oh, you’re right about that,” she said. She gave him a sort of appraising look, like he was a brahmin under inspection for meat quality, and it made him oddly uncomfortable. “There’s no tribunal for war crimes that you have to answer to like the NCR would want, but you do have to answer to _me._ We’re sending word along back to Fortification Hill that you’ve been killed in action, and because I’m sure they’ll want evidence, we’ll send that as well. The NCR will receive the same news. All in all, you’ll be rendered completely neutralized, at least on paper.”  
  
If he had any less mettle, Vulpes would have blanched. All he felt was a cold sensation in the pit of his abdomen. “You expect me to go along with this,” he said plainly. “Yet you know full well that the most loyal among us would rather die by our own hand.”  
  
“You won’t,” she replied, a corner of her mouth quirking. “I know you won’t. Even if you try, you won’t be able to. But you know as well as I do that Caesar is the kingpin in the Legion, and if he dies, which he inevitably will, without strong leadership, the Legion dies.”  
  
“You say that as if we don’t have a plan, or a hierarchy.”  
  
“What, you? Lanius? Lucius? You think I don’t have information on all of you?” The way she spoke brimmed with confidence. “And you think I don’t have ways to take all of them out? I don’t think I’m speaking too brashly or too confidently when I say that if I wanted to, the NCR’s presence in the Mojave could fall tonight if I said the word. Freeside could burn to the ground. I could ignite the entire Mojave and nothing could stop it. The most the Legion is, is just kindling. Hell, I could let the Legion and the NCR just kill each other and do that whole two birds-one stone thing.”  
  
There was something frightening in the way she spoke, like every word carried her threat as true and as far-reaching as a well-aimed javelin. If she chose, she could inspire an army in a way that Caesar couldn’t. His army would die for him, and her army would _live_ for her. Vulpes was faced with a reality so much bigger than the war in the Mojave, and all of it was being spoken in such quiet tones that it didn’t even echo in the spacious bathroom.  
  
He mustered what he could of himself, of his confidence and his speech. “So why don’t you?” he asked.  
  
The smile on her face was almost lazy, easy-going like she hadn’t threatened the entire desert and all its inhabitants. “Too much work, and too much cleanup. I’m going for an easy victory, or at least one where I can have some downtime. That, and I’ve got quite a few friends out there that I don’t want to upset.”  
  
Vulpes felt himself growing frustrated, or more appropriately, confused until he _became_ frustrated. “ _Why?_ ” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “What interest could you possibly have in taking over New Vegas? Is it the money? Power?”  
  
“Neither,” she replied. Her smile didn’t leave her face, but it seemed less natural. “And I’m not divulging _all_ my secrets to you just yet. That’s one that you’re going to have to figure out on your own.” She stepped away from the wall, spreading her feet a shoulder-width apart, her arms still crossed over her chest. It was a power position, standing tall above him and appearing as unshakable as a rock face. In that moment, she wasn’t Lizzie Holliday. She wasn’t content in her domain, easy and pliable and willing to work for the greater good, to run errands and save lives on another’s whim. The Courier stood before him, _above_ him, all legend and mythos and righteous fury that was capable of burning the Mojave to sand and rock and nothing else like the War repeated.  
  
Lizzie cleared her throat, her expression switching so quickly from a smile to something level and authoritative. “Vulpes Inculta, as of this day, I declare you guilty of too many crimes to name and count. Your sentence is execution,” she said, her voice cold and heavy like steel. She dropped one hand and reached into one of the cargo pockets on her fatigue pants, producing a small switchblade, some colorful stone inlaid in the handle.  
  
It wasn’t fear that froze him. It was nothing he could name, but it kept every muscle completely still, his eyes fixed wide, his jaw clenched tight. The Courier pulled her arm back, and then struck at him with the speed and precision of a nightstalker. A searing pain erupted across the right side of his face, lancing white-hot in a line under his eye. He winced back, hands instinctively moving up to cover his wound, but still bound in place.  
  
When he managed to look at her, the smell of his own blood an unpleasant tang in the air, he found her grinning, as content as a deathclaw in a bloodbath. The switchblade was at her side, blood dark on the blade.  
  
“And there you go. Dead as a doornail,” she said, flicking the blade back into the handle without wiping it off.  
  
He eyed her, trying his best to ignore the burning sensation on his cheek. “That’s it?” he asked.  
  
“Oh, no, you’re right. One more thing.” Another pocket opened, and this time, she pulled out a small square of paper, grasping it between her index finger and thumb. It wasn’t hard to see what it was, as Vulpes would have recognized the object at any distance. Emblazoned on the front was the very decal of the lottery ticket his men had given out at Nipton. The paper was crumpled slightly, a little charred at the edges, but it was without a doubt one of those tickets.  
  
Lizzie approached him without hesitation, crouching down beside him. In a swift movement, she wiped the ticket against his face until it came back coated in red. He leaned away from it, glaring at her.  
  
“ _Now_ that’s it,” she said with finality, admiring the bloodstained ticket. “I’ve got some mail to deliver to a certain Legion go-between. A lovely care package containing this beauty and a vexillarius helmet with some poor bastard’s skull shoved in it.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“You’re dead, in case you weren’t aware. I decapitated you,” she said with a wide smile. “Caesar’s gonna want an update, and fortunately for _you_ , some lucky Fiend died in your place, so I won’t have to yank off your head for my delivery run. And _another_ Legionary so graciously donated his helmet for my cause. Good thing it looks so much like yours, right?”  
  
He was stunned. She was going to follow through on her plan, to make it seem as if she had personally killed him and saw fit to send back the evidence to Caesar himself without heed to the consequences. Detachments would be sent after her, and a bounty worth her weight in denarii would be placed on her own head.  
  
In short, he was completely sure, without error, that the Courier was out of her mind.  
  
Before he could ask any further questions (including the one drilling a hole in his mind as to why the _hell_ she wanted the Mojave at all), she had folded the bloodstained lottery ticket in half and placed it back in her pocket. Then, she sighed, standing up straight and putting one hand on her hip. “While I’m gone, I’m leaving Veronica to give you a makeover. Like hell you’re working under me looking like _that_.” She gave him another once-over and he felt his skin crawl. “And you’re going to need another name, or at least one I can yell in the field without attracting the attention of the whole Legion.”  
  
“The field?”  
  
She nodded, putting her other hand on her opposite hip. “More of your punishment, aside from obviously getting your head chopped off. You get to be hauled around the Mojave and shown _exactly_ what you and your merry band of assholes have been trying to destroy. And you’re going to _help_ those people. Like...” She trailed off, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we’ll run supplies out to Bitter Springs and you can personally feed people there. Or we can go blow up a slaver camp with some stolen Powder Gang dynamite. I’ll flip a coin or something and we’ll figure it out.”  
  
Vulpes didn’t know how to react. He wanted to yell at her, to exclaim that there was no way he was just going to flip loyalties right then and there (in her bathtub, no less) and help her attempt to destroy all of the Legion’s interests and projects. He had worked too hard to have so many of them put in place, only for her to suggest that he should put all of that in reverse. For that matter, he also desperately wished he had his Ripper back and actually followed through on her threat of decapitation, except it would be her head being sent to the Fort. And finally, he kind of wanted to just shove his face in his hands and scream, for venting purposes. None of those were possible, so he just elected to gape at her, like he had been doing the entire time she was there.  
  
When he didn’t say anything, she just smiled congenially and reached out, patting him on the shoulder like they were old friends rather than two enemies more prone to blast each other to opposite ends of the desert. “I’ll see you tomorrow, oh decapitated one.”  
  
And she was gone. And he was still tied up in the bathtub.  
  
Vulpes leaned his head back until the back of his neck touched the ceramic of the tub, and he groaned in frustration.


	2. Februus - God of Purification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two, also known as the one where Veronica and Cass are cruel and unusual and Lily babysits. 
> 
> (Courier reappears in the next chapter, yes she does.)

Veronica Santangelo was _relentless._ Vulpes had no idea what had happened in her life that would make such a tiny person so violent in every respect, but she wasted absolutely no time in demonstrating that with a smile on her face that some people might call ‘adorable’. He was not one of those people, and in fact found her very menacing. If they were out in the open, he wouldn’t have even wasted time in attempting to enslave her. He would have just killed her to save his men and himself the trouble. Granted, judging by the reports he had on her, he’d be at the mercy of the Brotherhood of Steel if he did kill her, but he could honestly live (for a short time) with that.  
  
When the Courier had left, there was a pause of about five minutes before the door to the bathroom swung open and the space was filled with a spritely voice merrily singing ‘Jingle Jangle Jingle’. Veronica turned the corner, smiling with all the wattage of a neon Vegas sign. “Well, if it isn’t our guest of honor!” she said, sounding authentically pleased. It might have come across that way if his eyes didn’t go straight to the modified power fist on her hand. She ignored his stare, or she actually didn’t care. “You get the special Lucky 38 spa and makeover package. Yay!”  
  
The way she phrased it made it sound like she wouldn’t have minded rearranging his face with her weapon. With what intel he had on her, she probably didn’t mind at all.  
  
“Right,” he returned, his voice both figuratively and literally dry. “I’m sure it’s going to be utterly rejuvenating.”  
  
“Oh, good, you’re sarcastic,” she replied happily. “This’ll be fun. Anyway, Cass is getting some new clothes for you. Or, new- _ish_. It’s more like whatever we have on hand that might fit you.”  
  
He narrowed his eyes at her, partially for the information and partially because her smile was damn near blinding and he _hated_ it. “I’m not going to wear any of your profligate clothes,” he said, and when she _giggled_ , he decided that he not only hated her smiling at him, but he just sort of hated her in general.  
  
“Too late, genius,” she said, reaching over with her non-weaponized hand to tug at one of the lapels of his jacket. “And this thing is as ugly as sin. Believe me, I know. I grew up around people who had absolutely zero fashion sense.”  
  
As if she could talk. The girl was dressed in her scribe clothes which were the color of radioactive mud. Before Vulpes could point that out, he bit down on his bottom lip to shut himself up. He didn’t need to be arguing fashion with a girl that looked like she was barely an adult. For that matter, he didn’t need to be arguing fashion _at all_.  
  
“When is the Courier returning?” he asked, although his voice had no inflection. He kept it as hard and as controlled as he could, and tried to fix Veronica with a glare that would petrify anyone else. The optimal phrase there was ‘anyone else’, because Veronica Santangelo was not afraid of him. In fact, she broke into peals of laughter that just about made his ears ring. Just outside the bathroom door, he could hear the cybernetic dog barking in excitement.  
  
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry but...” She snickered moving her hand from his jacket to her mouth. Then she had the gall to _snort_ at him. Seriously! “You just look like a little tiny angry dog right now and it’s _awesome_.”  
  
By that point, he was seething. His teeth were clenched and he was fairly certain the circulation to his hands was cut off by how tight he was clenching his fists. “That doesn’t answer my question, scribe,” he snarled.  
  
“Hey, I’m just enjoying the fact we have like, one of the most deadly Legion guys _ever_ in our bathtub. How often does that happen?” She laughed a little more before wiping at the corner of one eye and sighing. “Oh man, okay, yeah. She’ll be back probably... tomorrow morning, I think. She’s just gotta go to McCarran and some Legion ‘hotspot’, wherever that is. Good thing good couriers are fast, right?”  
  
He had an entire day and night to put up with these people, even though all he had seen was Veronica, the ghoul, and the dog. He didn’t want to know who else he was going to be seeing. Bashing his head off the bathtub’s rim seemed very appealing again, especially with the threat of Veronica’s makeover looming over him like a thunderhead.  
  
“And what are you supposed to do to me?” he asked.  
  
“Good of you to ask!” she said brightly. “My job is, and I quote: ‘Make him look as little like himself as possible.’ Lizzie’s orders.”  
  
“If you think you’re going to perform reconstructive surgery on me--”  
  
“Right, I’m sure you’d much prefer Boone add a little extra metal to your head instead of me. Predictable, but no, that’s not what I’m doing.” The power fist gave an extra little pneumatic hiss like it was agreeing with her. Veronica continued, waving her non-weaponized hand through the air. “Besides, we don’t have an auto-doc. Or, at least I don’t _think_ we do? Never can be too sure with Lizzie.”  
  
The frustration was burning in him, but it was awfully hard to attempt to throttle someone while being restrained. Not to say it was impossible, and if Vulpes had been anywhere else, he might have tried something creative. But he was in the Lucky 38, and there could have been any host of people residing within that wouldn’t have thought twice about snapping his neck or putting a few holes in his head, or both.  
  
“Anyway, mostly we just have to get you cleaned up, at least to start with,” she continued, not heeding the dark, stormy look that must have taken residence on his face. “If your hair was longer, we could try hair dye. I think you’d make a pretty fetching blond. You’d give Arcade a run for his money.”  
  
“Get to the point or shut your mouth, scribe,” he ground out.  
  
“Aw, you’re no fun,” Veronica chirped pleasantly. Then, with little ceremony and absolutely _no_ warning, she reached over and cranked the faucet of the bathtub on, immediately splashing him with water that was utterly _frigid_. Inner strength bedamned, Vulpes couldn’t help but suck in a harsh breath of air as he reeled back from the spray. Still being bound by duct tape, kicking himself away from it was futile, and in the end, it just left him wriggling uncomfortably like some kind of imbecile.  
  
And _of course_ Veronica just laughed harder.  
  
He wanted to say some choice things, and some not so choice, but the cold water was quick to rob him of anything remotely verbose. Instead, he just grit his teeth and gave her the most hateful, venomous glare he had ever given anyone.  
  
“Sorry,” she said, and there wasn’t even a hint of an apology. “Just got a little ahead of myself. My bad.” And she turned on the hot water, and even for a facility as advanced as the Lucky 38, it took far too long for the water to heat up.  
  
“I’m still clothed,” Vulpes managed through his teeth.  
  
“Well, how about that? You sure are! You’re so good at this, like a top-notch detective!”  
  
When he came up with a plan and managed to escape the casino, he was going to maim and kill the scribe in the most terrible way he could concoct. Crucifying wasn’t going to be enough.  
  
Veronica let the water run for a moment more before disappearing around the corner and reappearing with a pair of shears. She snipped them a few times before advancing on him, and the comparison between her and a very hungry coyote did not go amiss.  
  
“What are you doing?” he asked, and his throat somehow felt more dry than it did before.  
  
“Disrobing you, sort of,” she said, with another satisfying _snikt_ of the shears. “Why, do you want Cass to do it when she gets here? I’m sure she’d love to.”  
  
Vulpes did have a faint understanding of who ‘Cass’ was, but the link wasn’t made in lieu of focusing on how cold the water was and the fact that Veronica was literally about to cut his clothes off.  
  
“You do that and it will absolutely be the last thing you ever do,” he threatened.  
  
It didn’t surprise him when she laughed. “What, are you gonna flop like a fish at me? That’s pretty threatening.” Then, she rolled her eyes. “Seriously, nothing you have is going to rustle my skirts, Legion boy. You don’t have the right parts.”  
  
He didn’t have the right-- _Oh._ The realization came fairly quickly, considering the fact his brain still wasn’t firing on every piston just yet for any number of reasons. Still, it didn’t make the situation much better, and it didn’t matter if she liked other women or not, he did _not_ want her removing his clothes under any circumstances. Hell, he wouldn’t even want someone he _liked_ doing that, let alone her.  
  
“Why do you think I can’t do this myself?” he managed, every word laced and looped through with enough venom to make a radscorpion wince. “You have me at every vulnerability here.”  
  
Veronica sighed and lifted her gaze up to the ceiling like she was dealing with an insufferable toddler rather than a full grown man capable and having a history of slaughter and destruction. “Okay, look, I know I don’t look all that old or experienced or whatever. But I’m not an idiot, and I know _exactly_ who you are and that there are probably twenty different ways you could try to kill me just in this bathroom alone if I let you loose.”  
  
Well, thirteen ways that he could immediately figure out, but he could respect her foresight. That was about as far as his respect went. Still, it wasn’t convenient that she knew that and she didn’t seem to be budging on the subject or her advancement with the shears.  
  
In short, the whole thing was degrading, but short of finding some new and creative way to kill someone while completely bound in duct tape, dunked in cold water, and surrounded by people with access to one of the greatest armories in the Mojave, there wasn’t much he could do. He grit his teeth with enough force to make his jaw sore and his molars ache, and he let her do what she had to. Fortunately, she made quick work of it, and at least left him a little bit of dignity in the form of his underwear. That was about all the dignity she could afford him, though, as her next step was to scrub him down.  
  
And that was where he discovered that she was not only relentless, but she practically defined the word.  
  
All she had was an old rag and some soap on hand, but she somehow managed to make it feel like she was attacking him with steel wool. Trying not to make an outward show of cringing as she all but hacked at his shoulders, he wondered if there was any chance that the Legion had done something to her, her family, or any of her friends outside of the Lucky 38 group that would in turn make her hate them so much that she had to take it out on him. The only thing that threw that theory off was the fact that she seemed as happy as a Fiend in a chem den while she went about her task. She had since switched songs so that she was now singing ‘Blue Moon’ in a pathetic attempt at crooning.  
  
Seriously, he was going to have to find a way to make sure she died a very painful, slow death. Preferably one where her tongue was removed.  
  
She was about halfway through the second verse when the bathroom door opened again. The cyber-dog trotted in with a happy bark, followed by a sing-song, “ _Helloooooo!_ ”  
  
“Howdy, Cass!” Veronica chirped from behind him. She was going over his right shoulder for what felt like the sixth time. He was pretty sure what ever she did was going to scar.  
  
His faint memory of ‘Cass’ suddenly flourished back to life when aforementioned woman turned the corner, her arms full of hastily folded clothing.  
  
Right. Rose of Sharon _Cass_ idy. That made sense.  
  
And it also made him feel like he was going to vomit straight into the bathwater.  
  
There were only a few key points that he remembered from his past observations and reports from the other Frumentarii. What he gleaned for himself was that she was the owner of Cassidy Caravans before selling it to Alice McLafferty (which didn’t end up well for her once the Courier had a say in it), she had spent most of her time at the Mojave Outpost drinking away her sorrows, and she was a very accomplished gunman. However, it was one of the Frumentarii, Pamphilus, who came back with the report that not only could she drink just about any living, breathing soul under the table, but she was a relentless flirt, and that had Pamphilus not given up on his incognito drinking contest with her during his mission to the Outpost, he was fairly certain he would have woken up naked in an abandoned gas station unarmed, broke, and _very_ satisfied.  
  
And judging by the deep red blush on her face, she had been doing some practice for her next contest.  
  
She stopped dead once she was in view of the bathtub, her eyes comically wide over the top of the clothing pile. “Oh. Huh,” was all she managed before setting the pile down on a dresser.  
  
“Cass, this is Vulpes,” Veronica replied, wringing the rag out over the sink.  
  
That brahmin inspection glance that the Courier gave him was _nothing_ compared to how Cass stared at him. It didn’t matter that he was still somewhat clothed and also obscured by the soap-white bathwater. She gaped at him like he was unabashedly nude and standing on top of a table for all to see like a Gomorrah showgirl.  
  
“Well,” Cass started, her eyebrows practically in her hair. “How- _dy_.”  
  
Vulpes resolutely didn’t say a word.  
  
“He’s not the friendliest right now,” Veronica went on, shuffling around the bathtub to get to the dresser. She hummed thoughtfully while thumbing through the clothes until she pulled out what looked like an olive-drab flak jacket. “He’ll warm up, though. Right, Legion boy?”  
  
While he knew Veronica knew who he was, he wondered if she actually _knew_ who he was. No one had ever spoken down to him like that. Most people, upon learning his intentions and any degree of his history, wisely cowered with their tails between their proverbial legs. He had done his part in bathing the Mojave in the blood of the deserving, and it might have been a little lofty of him to expect the payoff would be something better than what ever it was she was doing. Part of him wanted to recite his list of current and past activities, not just the slaughter at Nipton or the irradiation of Camp Searchlight. He wanted to give her every gory detail so she stopped speaking to him like he was an ill-behaved pet.  
  
Yet something told him that he would be playing exactly into her hands, or at least into something he wouldn’t like. So he just seethed in silence, trying to move his focus from mentally dismembering her and the drunkard to the gurgling sound of the bath draining.  
  
“Do they _all_ look like that in the Legion?” Cass asked, as if he couldn’t hear her. “Like, _damn_. I mean, I don’t make a habit of ogling them much but... Shit, a girl might just have to invest in some binoculars.”  
  
Right. Horrible deaths via maiming or worse for the both of them. He made a very big mental note of that.  
  
Veronica seemed to ignore her for the most part, busying herself with comparing two different shirts, one gray and the other black. The gray one was tossed over the back of a chair and the black was hung over one arm. “So, with the whole ‘make him not look like himself’ thing, are we thinking full on beard?” she asked, moving to a decision on three different sets of pants. “Goatee? Soul patch? Handlebar mustache?”  
  
“Does he _need_ facial hair?” Cass returned, quirking one corner of her mouth up and squinting at him.  
  
“Only if we want half the Mojave to recognize him.”  
  
“Ugh. Fine.” More squinting. Vulpes entertained a very vibrant fantasy of gouging out her eyes. “Yeah, I guess like one of those grizzly mountain-man beards. You think he can pull it off?”  
  
“Honestly?” Veronica cast him a glance before shaking her head. “No. But it’s worth a shot. I thought he’d be a good blond, though.”  
  
Cass snorted before leaning up against the wall next to the dresser and crossing her arms over her chest. “Y’know, Liz has had some damn fool ideas before, but this might take some pretty special credit.”  
  
Vulpes had to agree, mostly on the count that the Courier was orchestrating his very fake death and either ignoring the inevitable consequences or outright not caring about them. She was holding him hostage and he still had no idea what her real intentions were. It couldn’t have been as simple as her idea of punishment for anything he had done. She could have enacted that brand of justice back out in the desert. There was absolutely no need to take him back to her home, her _headquarters_ , the one place where he could gain all the information he could possibly need about her. If it had been anyone else trying to pull it off, he would have said it was stupid. But she had proven to him multiple times that she rarely did anything without their being another motive, something far deeper than just the appearances.  
  
While he prided himself on being a quick thinker and a good strategist, he couldn’t figure out her angle for the life of him. And it looked like he was going to have plenty of time to ruminate on it.  
  
\---  
  
Veronica removed the duct tape just long enough to get him dressed, but only under pain of death from Cass all but holding a gun to his head and the dog staring at him like he was a delicious brahmin steak. They had given him a long-sleeved gray shirt and black fatigue pants. As soon as he had put those on, the roll of duct tape came back, and while Vulpes mulled over the possibilities of beating someone to death with it, he let Veronica do what she had to do. It didn’t mean he had to enjoy it, and he did savor the fact that she was clearly nervous binding his wrists again, like he was liable to strike out at any given moment. At least his feet weren’t bound again.  
  
After that, he finally got to see a little more of the presidential suite, albeit with a rifle barrel pressed into the divot of his spine. In the short walk between the bathroom and the master bedroom, Vulpes got the full understanding of how fucked he really and truly was.  
  
The place was practically ancient, clearly full of some old world comforts that he hadn’t experienced outside of the Strip. If he breathed in, past the mustiness from the casino’s age, he could smell something cooking, like meat and vegetables. His stomach gave a hungry-nauseous protest at the idea, but he quickly quelled it. Best not to give into that kind of weakness, and besides, he had lasted longer with less. More observation yielded plush carpet, gilded light fixtures, and-- Yes, that was a _Securitron cowboy_.  
  
He also was the recipient of two glares of varying degrees of death and hatred from two men he immediately identified as Arcade Gannon (the less deadly and hateful one, although he managed to look more disgusted than anything) and Craig Boone (who looked like he would enjoy nothing more than gutting Vulpes with his bare hands and igniting his entrails in pure thermite). The NCR sniper, of course, was armed and primed with his finger on the trigger of his sniper rifle and the muscles in his arms tensed. The Followers doctor was far more laid back, although his plasma defender was within a second’s reach. Vulpes was fairly certain that the population of the Lucky 38 wanted him dead, and it was through the Courier’s good graces (or curiosity, or sick sense of humor) that he wasn’t dead yet.  
  
Cass steered him into the master bedroom, the dog at her side. Veronica trailed behind both of them, her presence marked with the hiss of her power fist. The only other... thing in the bedroom was the robot, hovering a little higher than Vulpes’ head. Although it didn’t have eyes, Vulpes felt like it was watching him, and he knew better than to assume that the thing was unarmed.  
  
The door shut behind them with a click, and Cass lowered the rifle a fraction. “Well, there’s better situations out there that get a guy into your bedroom. Oh well,” she said dejectedly. “Veronica, you gonna give him the lowdown?”  
  
“Might as well,” Veronica replied before walking in front of him. She cast her free arm in a loose gesture to the rest of the room. “You’re staying in here for awhile. Lizzie’s orders. You’ll be under watch twenty four-seven since removing all the weapons in here probably wouldn’t stop you.“ That was a wise decision. “Someone will bring you food at some point, but no utensils.” Also wise. “Knock twice on the door for bathroom breaks, but you only get one every three hours. You have to go before then, you go in the trashcan or something. But Lizzie’ll be pissed, so I’d hold it if that were the case.” _Charming.  
  
_ “Lily’s first on watch,” Cass added.  
  
Wait. Lily?  
  
He looked over at the girls to gauge their reactions and found them both grinning wide. The dog just wagged his tail with his tongue lolling out.  
  
“Oh, you’ll love her,” Veronica said, and it sounded like it was meant to be assuring otherwise. From her, though, it sounded like it bordered on threatening. “Cass, you wanna tell her that we’re ready?”  
  
“It’d be my pleasure.”  
  
That didn’t bode well.  
  
Cass went back out into the hallway, and it wasn’t a minute before Vulpes literally felt the ground _shake_ , followed by a delighted-sounding inhuman growl of, “ _Hello, pumpkin!_ ”  
  
He wasn’t sure what he expected exactly, but it certainly wasn’t a massive nightkin coming through the door. And in his mind’s eye, even if he _had_ been expecting a nightkin, he wouldn’t have pictured one with a sun hat, overalls, and some kind of shawl with a flower on it. The nightkin might have smiled, or what ever grotesque face movement she made could be classified as, before stomping over to him. She was _massive_ , and as much as he had ever dealt with super mutants or nightkin or anything like her, he still felt utterly dwarfed by her.  
  
“ _Jimmy! I didn’t know you were coming! I would have made cookies!_ ” the nightkin growled, and it looked like she was going to go in for a bone-shattering hug before Cass stepped in.  
  
“He’s not Jimmy, Lily. Kind of looks like him though, right?”  
  
The nightkin stared at him, tilting her head one way, then the other, before grimacing (smiling?). “ _Of course! You must be Jimmy’s little friend, Ethan! It’s been an age, dearie!_ ”  
  
“That’s right, Lily,” Veronica said, and it was more than clear that she was fighting back a laugh. “And Ethan needs a babysitter tonight, remember?”  
  
Forget maiming and torturing and all of that. Vulpes was going to find a way to set the entire Lucky 38 on _fire._  
  
“ _Oh, yes! Little boys need to be watched!_ ”  
  
“Well, play nice,” Cass said with a grin just a hair short of wicked. “You’ll get dinner in about an hour. And Rex here will stay with you. Isn’t that right, Rex?” The dog barked happily before circling around Cass and coming up close to her hip. She scratched at a spot under his jaw before nodding to Veronica.  
  
The two of them left the room with Rex dutifully staying behind. The only thing either of them offered was a wink from Cass and Veronica waving at him with a wiggle of her fingers before she shut the door. There were three resounding clicks, clearly heavy duty locks from the outside. And then he was alone, or more accurately, in the company of a very deranged nightkin and a robot dog.  
  
Fortunately, said nightkin seemed more interested in opening one of the dressers and pulling out a pile of rumpled clothes, starting the process of folding them with more delicacy than something that size should have had. And she started _humming_ , which came across as a garbled strain of dissonant notes. The most she did was look at him over her shoulder (maybe, since she was wearing goggles) and grimace more. “ _Don’t mind me, Ethan. You play with Rexy as much as you want. Grandma will be right here._ ”  
  
Vulpes didn’t know what to say to that, or if he could say anything. He wasn’t too keen on having all of his ribs broken by a nightkin’s display of affection, so he sidled over to the desk and bookshelf in the corner, about as far away from her as he could get. At the very least, there was a desk between them and a paperweight that he could wield if he had to.  
  
If there was ever a time to plan, it was right then. The Courier wouldn’t be returning for nearly a day, and Vulpes somehow had to find a way to get out of the Lucky 38 without being killed or horrifically injured. He would have to maneuver around all of the casino’s residents, which obviously included some Securitrons on top of the Courier’s companions. And those companions knew him well enough to know the level of danger he posed. They would react accordingly, and he was wise enough to figure out that between their firepower and the Securitrons themselves, he wouldn’t get very far. He also didn’t know the layout of the casino even a fraction as well as he wished, so using the vent shafts or any maintenance tunnels was out of the question.  
  
Which did bring him to the point of asking himself if it would be worth it to die for Caesar. Like he had told the Courier, the best among them was willing to do what needed to be done. As the head of the Frumentarii, hand-chosen by Caesar himself, a respected officer, Vulpes really shouldn’t have had to think twice. But he did, twice, thrice, and a few more times for good measure. His men thought of him as fearless, a leader to respect and idolize, and he had given them nothing but good reasons to believe that. If they knew his current situation, it would be disastrous.  
  
Although, the Courier was giving him a very unique opportunity. As far as the Legion would know, he was dead. The Fiend’s skull wrapped in the vexillarius helmet was as good as evidence could be aside from literally carting his corpse to the Fort. He didn’t know what story the Courier would spin about his death, if she would tell them that he ended his own life or she did it for him. Hell, she could have said that he died in some terrible embarrassing way like stepping on a Boomer landmine or breaking his neck falling down some stairs. Regardless, the Legion would have the full belief that he was dead, and the decision laid in the center of a very strange crossroads.  
  
He could get out of the Lucky 38 and the Courier’s grasp somehow and make a triumphant return to the Legion. He’d be lauded as a hero, praised by Caesar and rewarded handsomely for thwarting the Courier’s plot. If he killed some or all of the companions along the way, or killed the Courier herself, it would only get better for him. The augurs and oracles would call it a miracle, that he defeated death itself for the Legion’s glory.  
  
Or he could play along and disappear entirely. Like the Courier had said, once the NCR and the Legion were given the information, he was neutralized on paper. Vulpes Inculta would technically be dead, and he could make an entirely new identity for himself. It wouldn’t be hard. If anything, being the head of the Frumentarii had made him an exceptional actor. He could be anyone he wanted to be, a choice he had never been given before.  
  
It should have been a question, and Vulpes almost physically shook his head to banish it. His loyalty was entirely with the Legion. He had worked tirelessly, for _years_ for Caesar. So he had been captured, but what was it other than just another obstacle? He had been given a mission, and he had to uphold the duty that had been entrusted to him years ago. Either he died for Caesar, or he fought for him until his last breath.  
  
So, he had to get out of the Lucky 38.  
  
The rotten part of it all was that his best bet at both escape and survival was to play along regardless of what he might have wanted. The Courier had mentioned taking him out in the field, which meant that unless she was using a bomb collar, he would be essentially free to move. Yes, he might have to dodge some bullets if he made a run for it, but Vulpes was fairly experienced in the not-so-subtle art of bullet dodging. So long as it wasn’t Craig Boone doing the shooting, he might have a good chance.  
  
It would take some time, which was going to be the most valuable thing in his plot. He’d work his way into some kind of tentative trust and gain some information along the way, and if Caesar hadn’t wanted to make war on the Courier by the time his escape plan was in motion, than Vulpes would be more than happy to be a war advisor.  
  
It still required him to spend time with these... _barbarians._ That in mind, he watched as Lily folded a spring dress while humming something that might have been ‘Johnny Guitar’. Alright, so easier said than done. Earning any kind of trust outside of demented nightkin and dogs was obviously going to be a chore.  
  
First thing was first. He had some studying to do.


End file.
